Baker's Dozen or Life in Twenty-Six Parts
by RaymondShaw
Summary: "No magic, no death. Just an awkward pie-maker...and the broken woman who loves him." An expansion of Artemis J. Halk's fic 'Life in Twenty-Four Parts'. Originally written as an insert, now posted in its entirety - including more of Ned and Chuck's hospital visit, with much angst and hurt/comfort ensuing. *Trigger warnings: mentions and descriptions of rape and related injuries*
1. Part One: Introductions

**Notes: This work is based on the fantastic story by Artemis J. Halk, called 'Life in Twenty-Four Parts', which can be found on this site. I highly recommend that piece, and so I have now, for the sake of simplicity, posted the entire story here in chronological order (of which better than 80% is my original writing). However, for those of you who want the skinny, the facts are these: 'Life in Twenty-Four Parts' is an AU where Ned does not have the magic finger, Chuck never died, and the two meet for the first time as adults when Chuck comes into the Pie Hole as a customer. She and the pie-maker fall in love over pie, coffee, and conversations as they navigate the perils of Chuck's abusive relationship with her current boyfriend. That's all you really need to know. Incidentally, the title 'Baker's Dozen' was born from the fact that, with the reworking of chapters and the addition of two that are my original work, twenty-four parts becomes twenty-six parts, which comprise exactly two baker's dozens i.e. thirteen rather than twelve items (does this make me a nerd?). Why write this? Because I have a thing for dark 'Pushing Daisies' AUs and severe Ned/Chuck angst, apparently.**

* * *

_Part One: Introductions_

It was easy for Ned to lose track of the people who came into the Pie Hole during the ever-busy lunch hour.

But, for some reason, her face stood out among the crowd.

This probably had something to do with the fact that she came in nearly every afternoon, stayed for the exact amount of time it took her to finish a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, and then she would leave.

Ned had no idea why he remembered her; after all, he had a lot of regular customers, especially during the lunch hour. He just did, and didn't bother to question it.

It was during an unusually slow afternoon that he actually had the chance to talk to her.

"Hi; can I get a slice of your daily special?" she asked, motioning with her finger towards the sign that said that the special was apple.

"Sure thing. And a cup of coffee, right?" Ned asked as he went to get her the pie. She nodded, and Ned poured her a cup. "You come in here a lot."

"It's the only time I can get away," she explained as she dug into her slice of pie. "I don't want to spend that time eating mediocre food."

"Well, I'm just glad that you find my pies a cut above 'mediocre'. I'm Ned."

"Chuck."

"Chuck?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, Charlotte. But my friends call me Chuck."

"Chuck."


	2. Part Two: Friendship

_Part Two: Friendship_

Over the next several months, Chuck continued to come into the Pie Hole every day. Ned didn't always have time to have a conversation with her, but he always made an effort to at least say hello to her.

Her sunny smile always seemed to brighten up his day, even from clear across the shop.

Ned wasn't quite sure what to call their relationship. While he would sometimes talk with some of his regulars, he didn't exactly seek them out for long conversations during lulls. That was more Olive's thing.

But with Chuck, it was different. He enjoyed talking with her, and she would sometimes linger over a second cup of coffee as an excuse to stay a little bit longer.

"Geeze, is it that late already?" Chuck said as she glanced at the clock in the kitchen. "My boss is going to kill me!"

She drained the rest of her coffee and quickly left the bakery.

"You two sure seem close," Olive observed once Chuck was gone.

"Yeah," Ned said. "She's my friend."


	3. Part Three: Touch, Part One

_Part Three: Touch, Part One_

The day started much the same as any other day. Ned got up and baked, Olive came in some time later, and they sold pie like they always did.

Chuck came in at one, like she'd been doing recently. They'd both found that it was easier to sit and talk after the lunch rush had left. Ned had a slice of pie in front of her before she had even settled into her seat, and poured her a cup of coffee.

Chuck started to tell Ned about some awful client at the firm where she worked.

It was just like any other day.

When Chuck had finished with her pie, Ned moved to take the plate away – but he moved at the same time that Chuck adjusted the fork on the plate.

Their fingers touched.

Just a simple, little touch.

But…it seemed to light both of them on fire, and they were both very aware of their touching hands in that one moment.

They both pulled away at the same time. Ned turned around to take the plate into the kitchen, but when he came back out, Chuck was finishing up her coffee to go back to work.

"See you tomorrow," she whispered.


	4. Part Four: Boyfriend

_Part Four: Boyfriend_

The next afternoon after their accidental touch, Chuck told Ned about her boyfriend.

They'd been together for quite a while…but the way Chuck talked about him led Ned to believe that there was something lacking in their relationship.

Ned had gotten to know Chuck's facial expressions, and her eyes always lit up whenever she talked about something she was truly passionate about.

Chuck talked about her boyfriend the way she talked about the weather: flatly and devoid of interest.

Ned wondered why she was still with him if she really felt that way.

He wondered why she was telling him this after all this time.


	5. Part Five: Touch, Part Two

_Part Five: Touch, Part Two_

The second time that their fingers touched was just as accidental as the first time.

It happened a few weeks after Chuck told Ned about her boyfriend.

Chuck had put out the money to pay for her pie and coffee, and Ned moved to accept it from her. Their hands touched, and it was only slightly more contact than the first time.

Neither of them drew back right away.

Ned looked to Chuck, and found her looking at him intently.

She was giving him more than a look – it was a full-on stare…and he found himself lost in her hazel eyes.

He really wanted to kiss her.

Chuck looked away first, and pulled her hand away. Her face was pale – not flushed, like Ned's.

She whispered some apology and quickly left the Pie Hole.

Ned could only hope that she came back.


	6. Part Six: Time, Part One

_Part Six: Time, Part One_

One month.

It was only four weeks…or thirty days…or seven hundred and twenty hours and a few odd minutes and seconds.

Not like Ned was counting.

That was how long Chuck was gone.

It was only a month.

He hadn't known her for that long – so why did her absence weigh so heavily on him like this?


	7. Part Seven: Bruises

_Part Seven: Bruises_

Chuck finally came back to the Pie Hole after her month-long absence.

She offered no reason why she'd been gone, and Ned didn't ask.

He saw a yellowing bruise on the inside of her wrist – and spotted another one at the base of her throat, just visible under the collar of her blouse.

Ned didn't ask about those, either.

She was an adult, and she had a boyfriend. They'd only struck up a conversation because she loved his pies. It didn't mean anything. Just some friendly chit-chat during lulls in the bakery traffic.

Chuck sat in a booth – a first for her since she'd started coming to the Pie Hole. She didn't look up and barely said hello to him when he gave her her slice of pie and cup of coffee.


	8. Part Eight: Distance

_Part Eight: Distance_

Ned vowed to keep his distance from Chuck.

It was clear that she was trying to do the same, and Ned wanted to respect her wishes.

He asked Olive to wait on Chuck whenever she came into the bakery.

Chuck continued to sit in a booth.

She started to come in during the lunch hour again.


	9. Part Nine: Rain

_Part Nine: Rain_

It was dark, and the rain was obviously discouraging any more late-night pie customers. Ned had already sent Olive home for the day, and was just wiping down the tables before he closed up shop and returned to his own apartment above the bakery.

The bell above the door jingled as it opened.

"Sorry, we're closed," Ned said, his back to the door as he tried to remove a stubborn coffee stain from a table.

"Sorry," said the soft voice that had invaded Ned's every waking hour.

He stood and turned to look at Chuck.

She was wet from the rain, and was making a fine puddling mess in the entrance of the bakery.

Not like Ned noticed that.

It was the big bruise on her cheek – dark and angry-looking, ugly – that Ned couldn't take his eyes off of.

He was at her side before he knew it. "What happened?" he whispered.

"He hit me."


	10. Part Ten: Guest

_Part Ten: Guest_

Ned offered her the bed.

Chuck refused, saying that a maker of decidedly-not-mediocre pies needed to get his rest.

He gave her a worn pair of sweatpants and an old turtleneck. They were much too large on her, but he didn't exactly have anything else to offer.

She sat awkwardly on his sofa, her fingers clenched in the pants' ratty fabric, and didn't say anything.

She didn't look like she was going to cry.

She just sat there, with a blank look on her face.

The hastily-borrowed, too-big clothes swamped her, sleeves still drooping over white knuckles even after they (along with the pant-legs) had been rolled up five times. They made her look so small, so young – for all the world so like a little girl who'd run away from home, only to get hopelessly lost.

Ned didn't know what to say to her. He didn't ask for details.

Chuck didn't give him any.


	11. Part Eleven: Time, Part Two

_Part Eleven: Time, Part Two_

One week.

That's how long Chuck was away after she spent the night at Ned's.

One week…or seven days…or one hundred and sixty-eight hours and a few odd minutes and seconds.

Not that Ned was obsessively checking the clock and looking towards the door every few seconds.

He was worried about her.


	12. Part Twelve: Hurt

_Part Twelve: Hurt_

It was almost a repeat of the first time that Chuck had come into the Pie Hole with a bruise on her cheek.

It was raining, and Ned had already sent Olive home for the night.

But this time, Chuck was in worse shape.

Her eye was blacked and swollen shut, her lip was split – and there were livid bruises that looked oddly like fingermarks around her neck.

And blood.

Her torn blouse was spattered with blood.

Ned didn't want to know if it was hers.

It already hurt too much just seeing her like this.

Ned also didn't need to ask, because he knew what had happened.

"We have to get you to the hospital," Ned muttered as he locked up the doors.

Chuck pulled on the sleeve of his rain-jacket as he passed, and he paused.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed the uninjured side of her face into his chest. She was trembling violently, but Ned didn't know if it was from fright or because she was wet and cold.

He just held her until she pulled away. He didn't care that the rainwater from her drenched hair seeped right through his shirt, soaking him to the skin.

She needed him right now, and that was the only thing that mattered.

"Hospital," she whispered.


	13. Part Thirteen: Hospital

_Part Thirteen: Hospital_

Ned didn't want to be in the hospital room with Chuck, while one of a pair of police detectives stood outside the door. While she stripped down, and some nurses took pictures and cataloged every injury on her body as the other detective meticulously took down both their names, addresses, and phone numbers – along with her boyfriend's – on a little leather-backed notepad.

It wasn't because he was uncomfortable with having her undress in front of him.

It certainly wasn't because he might get off on seeing her naked.

Every time she removed a piece of clothing, more and more injuries, both new and old, became apparent.

It made Ned angry to see somebody like Chuck hurt like this.

Even when Chuck sat on the examination table wearing nothing more than a strapless bra and a pair of sheer panties, and held Ned's hand, there was nothing sexual about the moment at all. Not even when the bra came off, and Ned caught a glimpse of Chuck's small breasts – soft and sweetly rounded, marred with the same bruises marking the rest of her body – before he quickly looked away.

He didn't so much as blush.

She was hurt, and tears streamed down her pale, swollen cheeks.

Ned didn't want to be in the hospital room, because looking upon Chuck's battered body made him want more than anything to get up and leave, to find whoever had done this to her, and hurt that bastard as badly as he had hurt Chuck.

But the gentle weight of her hand in his, and the tears that fell from her eyes, made him stay.


	14. Part Fourteen: Fallout

"Miss? Miss Charles?" When Chuck didn't answer immediately, the head nurse turned to Ned. She was a matronly type, middle-aged and of vaguely Caribbean descent. "Sir?"

Ned tore his gaze from the sight of Chuck's fingers entwined with his own, and bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

She gestured for him to join her, by the door. He hesitated for a moment before he got to his feet, reluctantly relinquishing his hold on Chuck's hand. The soles of his sneakers squeaked quietly against the floor tiles.

"I realize this is a hard time for you, and this question may be difficult to answer, but…we need to know – apart from what we've documented, does Miss Charles bear any other, more severe, signs of sexual assault?"

His eyes flicked back to Chuck, arms wrapped around herself to preserve what scant modesty she had left. "More…severe?"

"Yes… To your knowledge, were any other…acts…perpetrated on her person, such as…well, intercourse, penetration…"

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to sink in – and when it did, it hit with all the force of a punch to the gut.

Ned swallowed, with some difficulty. Suddenly the air in the room felt much too close; he broke out in a cold sweat that sent ice skittering down the length of his spine. "Oh. I – I don't – "

His eyes sought Chuck's, searching for a sign of dissent. Waiting, praying for a shake of the head that meant 'no'…

It didn't come.

Chuck, her expression rigidly blank, never breathed a word.

But he watched as she sat there on the narrow exam table – shivering arms hugging her body as though she'd caught a chill – watched her fingers tighten their grip on her thin shoulders until the knuckles turned white and the nails dug into the skin. Watched as her eyelashes fluttered and the tears flowed ever faster from beneath closed lids…

And, though he didn't want to, he knew.

So help him, he knew.

Ned's chest drew so painfully tight he could barely breathe.

"Oh, God," he choked. "Oh, God, Chuck. No. No…"

She wouldn't look at him. She just sat, her shoulders hunched up, curling in on herself. Silent.

The detective – Ned had forgotten his name – blew out his cheeks in a resigned sigh. "So that's it, then. We're looking at a straight-up rape."

The nurse gave a sorrowed, weary shrug. "We're going to have to take a swab. As evidence."

_Vaginal swabs. Rape test kits._ Ned had watched enough 'Forensic Files' and had enough discussions with PI Emerson Cod, a Pie Hole regular, to be more than familiar with the terms. They swirled sickeningly in the pit of his stomach until the rising nausea made him want to retch. His hands flew up to his mouth and he bit down on the heels of his palms to keep himself from gagging.

The nurse had her hand on the door handle. "I'll be back in a minute with the kit. Get her ready." She stepped out into the corridor.

One of the other nurses – young, with Olive's blonde hair and sugary smile – laid a kindly hand on Ned's arm to offer him the chair sitting beside the exam table. Which he promptly collapsed into, as his buckling knees gave out.

"It will help them catch the man who did this," she said.

"Yeah, you bet," the detective added, in what was clearly meant to be a reassuring tone. "We get a DNA profile, match it to what we've got here," he held up the notebook, "and nail this guy's ass to the wall."

They meant well. Ned tried to smile back, tried to be grateful. It was incredibly hard. He couldn't think, his brain caught in the fog of what had to be an obscene and terrible nightmare.

The table's disposable paper lining made a slight rustling sound as, next to him, Chuck was coaxed to stand.

For the first time, the detective looked uncomfortable. "I'll, uh, give you folks some privacy and just wait outside for this bit, alright? Need to find my partner and confer with her, y'know…" The door opened and closed in rapid succession, and he was gone.

Ned ordered himself to avert his eyes, to look no further than his own scraggly shoelaces or the hairline cracks in the baseboards – but he couldn't seem to move, to stop staring, as the team of nurses held Chuck steady while the blonde-haired one gently slipped her panties down her trembling legs until she could step out of them…

And he saw.

Saw the clenching, gouging claw-mark bruises, dark as wine stains, scattered low across her hips and up the insides of her thighs, like those he'd already seen along her arms, her neck, her breasts…

Saw the blood.

And, after she was draped in a thick, white paper wrap and laid down on the examination table, Ned saw Chuck draw up her knees, pull the wrap more securely about herself, and withdraw into it – like it was a shell, or a cocoon.

And Ned saw red.

Slack fingers curled into shaking fists at his sides, and he jammed them into the pockets of his jeans as deep as they could go, so they wouldn't do anything incredibly rash.

Like snatch Chuck up and crush her fragile body – so small – to his, to stroke and soothe and shield her from the horror, the sheer monstrous enormity, of everything he'd learned this awful night.

Like punch the wall as he screamed out all the rage and furious regret and utter non-acceptance of this…_thing_…that had happened, that was gutting him; slam his knuckles into the painted plaster until they bled so at least that way the pain would be there, on the outside, in his hands, and they would hurt instead of his heart.

At least that would be easier. That, he could take…

Just then the head nurse came back, carrying the test in a deceptively innocuous-looking clear plastic bag.

The struggle of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because she fixed him with an appraising look and said, "Perhaps it would be better if you stepped out in the hall for a minute?"

Ned offered her no more than a brief conciliatory nod, not trusting himself to speak. His throat felt raw, as though he'd inhaled shards of glass, and he didn't think he could open his mouth without either being sick or breaking down completely.

Neither of which would help Chuck.

He'd only been allowed to stick around so far because she'd refused to let go of his hand when she'd been brought in – refused to take a step without him by her side. Ned didn't know how else to interpret these actions, other than to think that Chuck was relying on him, depending on him to get her through this.

If all he could do was fall apart when she needed him most, maybe it was best for him to go –

Paper rustled frantically as it slid along the length of the examination table.

And Chuck's fingers were suddenly around Ned's wrist, locked in a death grip.

Gone was that blank expression – her hazel eyes, reddened and damp, were desperate, pleading, as they stared wildly into his.

"Don't leave me," she breathed, voice soft and fluttering. Ned thought of butterfly wings – so bright, so delicate…

Her grip shifted; her palm, icy cold, pressed against his, too warm and clammy with sweat. "Please. Please…"

What else could he do?

Ned laced his fingers with Chuck's, and squeezed as hard as he dared. Felt her squeeze back, holding on; their joined hands forming a lifeline.

He inhaled, sucking in a deep, steadying breath.

"I'm right here," he whispered to her. He could feel her pulse, feel it beat a racing rhythm against his palm as it lay flush with hers. All he could see were her eyes, so desperately sad, boring into his. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

The nurse raised one eyebrow eloquently, but mercifully made no objection as, between the two of them, she and Ned convinced Chuck to lie down on her back again. Chuck's hand never left his for a moment.

"Now, don't you worry, honey; this won't hurt a bit…"

But as a latex-gloved hand moved the wrap aside and came to rest on her upper thigh, Chuck's body jerked in a sudden flinch, her grip on Ned's hand tightening painfully. Her eyes shot to his.

He couldn't bear to see the abject terror in them.

Slowly, carefully, Ned knelt down, bringing the two of them face to face.

Their heads were so close together their foreheads nearly touched; he could feel her short, panting breaths wafting warm across his cheek. At this distance her eyes were green, he noticed, flecked with rich hazel and liquid honey…

"It'll be alright," he said. "I'm here for you. I'll always be here for you. Always."

The words were like a vow. Ned had never said anything that meant more, had never meant anything more sincerely in his life.

Her fear-filled gaze plumbed the depths of his, seeking. "Promise?"

"Promise."


	15. Part Fifteen: Aftermath

_Part Fifteen: Aftermath_

Ned was slouching, leaning up against the wall of the dimly-lit corridor outside the small hospital room, the white-capped toes of his sneakers restlessly scuffing the linoleum, his mind still reeling.

For the first time in what now amounted to nearly three hours, he was alone.

It was over.

The two detectives had left a half hour ago, armed with a dizzying array of forms that Ned signed in a mechanical stupor, without reading. The pen had to be placed in Chuck's hand and held to the paper to get her signature in the right places, but they'd gotten there in the end. They promised to follow up on the leads Ned and Chuck had given them and get in touch as soon as there were any developments. Ned had thanked them for their time, walking them down to the main entrance and seeing them off – ostensibly just to give his cramping legs something to do, but mainly to escape the stiflingly morbid atmosphere of the room.

He didn't think he could've stood to be in there for another single second…

The nurses, too, were gone, taking the completed rape test kit with them. They'd have the results in a few days to a week. Ned had nodded to show he'd absorbed the information, trying his best not to let his thoughts dwell on it for too long. He'd thanked them, also, for all their patience and kindness, and the friendly blonde nurse, before she left, told him Chuck had gotten the all-clear for discharge, and was free to go whenever she liked.

They were free to go. It was over.

So, Chuck was now in the bathroom, to dress and tidy herself up as best she could, before the two of them set off. She'd be staying at Ned's apartment – he wasn't about to entertain any other options on that score.

And, thinking it best to afford her some privacy for that sort of thing – while she licked her wounds and he nursed his bruises – Ned had relegated himself to the hospital hallway, to wait.

With nothing but his own thoughts for company.

Turned out they weren't the best of guests.

_How do we move on, from here?_

True, the arduous night, with all its doings, was over. And they'd both gotten through it; they'd survived. But Chuck would bear its implications for the rest of her life. And, so, Ned would, too.

Ned didn't think he'd ever – no, he _knew _he'd never – be free of its clutches.

He could not shake the sight of Chuck's injuries from his mind. Try as he might, their loathsome memory remained indelibly imprinted – _branded _– on his subconscious in all its gory technicolor glory. Each bruise, each cut, each spot of blood – the images cycled in a violently unrelenting, macabre slideshow. Over and over and over…

Ned screwed his eyes shut, squeezing them closed so tightly bright stars burst painfully like fireworks on the backs of his eyelids. Anguish flooded him, so strong as to be a physical sensation, a heavy stone lying in the middle of his breast, and absently he raised a hand to rub at his chest in a vain attempt to ease its weight.

He saw them still. A muffled groan escaped him, and he brutally ground the heels of his palms into his tight-shut eyes to blot the visions out, fisted his hands in his hair.

Ned was glad he was no longer in the small hospital room with Chuck. He could feel his grip on his composure slipping steadily; already he was barely grasping it by a thread. Holding on by his fingertips.

He didn't want her to see him like this.

It was all so maddeningly unreal. Was it really no more than two months ago that they'd been sitting across from each other perched on tall stools, bare elbows leaning on the countertop, sharing a slice of the daily special à la mode as Chuck liked best, the glow of the Pie Hole's cherry lights suffusing the air around them, soft and warm…?

Her eyes had shone so bright, he remembered, sparkling with mirth as she greeted Olive – as she giggled at a trivial something he'd said. Oh! what he wouldn't give for the sweet sound of her laughter now. Would he ever hear it again? He remembered the little dimples gracing her cheeks, the tiny wrinkles crinkling her pert nose and the corners of her eyes, and how he'd longed to trace them with his fingers, his lips –

_(Chuck's lambent eyes, wide with terror, pleading, as a blow from a heavy hand catches her across the face to send her sprawling; there's blood at the corner of her mouth as she reaches a trembling hand up to a purpling eye – )_

_Oh, please; make it stop –_

Her timid, tapered fingers, playing nervously with the cloth-covered buttons on her favorite butter-yellow blouse…he'd so wanted to reach out and cover them, still them, with his own –

_(Chuck's small hands writhing desperately, slim wrists snared in a punishing grip and forced above her head as rough fingers snatch at the collar of her blouse, the length of her skirt, and tear, buttons flying like popcorn – )_

"Stop it…"

The glow of her skin in the early afternoon sunlight; the white of her pretty, even teeth as she smiled –

_(Tattered clothing carelessly discarded, ripped away to expose acres of cream-white, cringing flesh that greedy hands clutch and pinch and squeeze and knead, leaving an eruption of plum-dark bruises in their wake as they travel ever lower, from bare shoulders over the sweet swell of breasts to trim waist, following the smooth curve of hips down and down; demure lace parts so easily as quivering thighs, protesting, are pried mercilessly apart, blunt fingers closing in a ruthless vise about an arching slender neck to choke off a desperate cry – )_

"STOP IT!"

The scream clawed its way out of him – savage with bitterness, the shriek of a wounded animal; it tore his raw throat to shreds with its passage, and he tasted the salty iron of blood on his tongue.

He'd been numb, before. Like a sleeping limb blossoming into an agony of pins and needles, his mind had only just now awakened to tortuous reality.

Now – now, his heart was being carved from his breast with a white-hot, dull-bladed butter knife. A firestorm of self-recrimination blazed through his veins; scorching, searing his frazzled nerves:

_You weren't there._

He'd promised Chuck, to be there for her –

But the promise was weak, empty; proven hollow and false by the night's revelations.

Chuck had been…raped – _Say the word, you coward_ – and Ned _had not been there_; had been, in fact, entirely ignorant of its occurrence; had been, in any case, absolutely powerless to prevent it.

His impotence smote him like a hammer blow.

Chuck had been beaten and raped, and Ned could do absolutely _nothing_ about it whatsoever.

_Except bake her a pie as a form of consolation._

It was so pitiful, Ned was seized by the absurd desire to laugh. A dark, mirthless giggle escaped him before he could hold it in, and he was vaguely dismayed to hear the note of hysteria in it.

_You can do nothing._ Save mourn.

He was _pathetic_. A _useless, good-for-nothing_…

The whole situation reeked of failure, of defeat. More of the horrid giggles burst out of him which he was helpless to control, growing louder and louder until they rang jarringly in his aching head, melding mockingly with the remembered echo of Chuck's laughter, until they cramped his stomach and their note changed, transmuted, into a sound very much resembling a sob…

The fervent prayer bubbled out of him; babbling and barely coherent, nearly unintelligible:

"Oh, God…I wish it was me instead of her. Oh, God, I'd give anything, I'll do anything; I don't care – only take it back. _Please_, let me _take it back_…"

But, of course, he could not. The thought spilled like ink, black and thick with hopelessness, across the blank, white pages of his consciousness.

Chuck… Beaten. Raped. _Violated._

Crushing grief and sheer helplessness mingled, broke over him like a cresting wave – and Ned had no strength left to resist as the freezing currents swept, dragged him under to drown in the bottomless wells of their depths; swallowed alive by the fathomless, gaping maw of his own despair.

Dimly, as peripheral white noise or background static on a poorly-tuned radio, he could hear that someone…somebody was weeping – no, _keening_ in a drawn-out, open-mouthed wail of agony. His straining jaw ached; and he recognized with faint surprise that it was _his_ sound, pouring from _his_ mouth –

Torrents of saltwater rushed in, stinging his eyes. Ned's lungs burned as they filled and fought to expand, to pull in air – but there was no air to be had; he thrashed and choked, strangled by a tempest of emotion, as the fiercely pounding rush of blood throbbed through his body and roared in his ears like the ocean…

And still that dreadful heartrending cry went on and on, unceasing – though how could that be, when his lungs were sodden and shriveled, when there was no air and Ned couldn't draw a breath, he couldn't _breathe_ and he was _suffocating_ _noaircan'tbreathecan'tbreatheCAN'TBREATHE_ –

A hot flash of pain bloomed across his cheek, sharp and sudden, and the wailing stuttered into an abrupt silence. Eyes Ned hadn't realized were shut flew open in shock as he registered the slap and felt the firm press of a hand wrapped around his throat –

"_Breathe._"

The fingers of the hand squeezed lightly, the increase in pressure sending images of the bruises on Chuck's neck flurrying through his mind, and Ned's head jerked in panic, nails scrabbling at the base of his jaw to dislodge the grip –

"Don't fight. I'm here to help you. _Look at me_."

Shaking with effort, Ned dropped his hands and trained his gaze on the blur of white in front of him. Slowly, gradually, it resolved into a pair of concerned eyes set in a dark-skinned face, staring back at him. _The Caribbean head nurse…_

"Focus. I need you to _focus_." His head lolled on a loose neck, rolled to one side, blackness prowling at the edges of his vision. "Don't you dare pass out on me – "

A second slap, harder than the first, roused him once more. Ned struggled to stay conscious. His head was splitting, his heart hammering against sore ribs, each beat piercing his breast like a stab wound, and he still couldn't get any _air_ –

_("He's slipping into shock. I'm going to need chlordiazepoxide – ")_

"Listen to me. _Listen._ You're having an anxiety attack. Right now, you're hyperventilating, and I need you to _calm down_ and _breathe_."

The hand clamped about his throat shifted, fingers spread and rolling along the skin in a gentle massage of strung-out muscles, before cupping the underside of his jaw, holding his mouth and airways open.

"Breathe with me. _Relax. _A deep _inhale_ – nice and _slow_ – and _exhale_; let it all out. Come on…easy now…that's it… Good. That's good…"

Ribs creaking, sides flaring in pain, Ned's chest heaved as – _finally_ – he gasped and drew in a long breath, deep and rattling, through a throat shrunk narrow as a pinhole. The air burned his constricted lungs, felt too thin, like he was at high altitude or sucking on helium – and it _hurt_, oh! it hurt so _bad_ – but it was _air_ and he could breathe it; he could _breathe_ again.

_One breath._

And then, another. And another, and another…

Ned sucked in oxygen greedily in great, wheezing gulps, feeling the nurse's hand eventually drop from his neck, fingertips brushing along the angle of his jawline in a near-caress.

Awareness of his surroundings began to filter back in, as his sight cleared and he came back to himself.

Cold seeped in through the seat of his jeans, and he saw that at some point he must have slid down the wall of the corridor to end up half-sitting, half-lying on the floor. His hands shook with slight tremors, and their palms smarted as if he'd smacked them against something repeatedly, hard. His face was tearstained and horribly sticky, the skin stretched tight over his cheekbones. His eyes were swollen and scratchy, like he'd rubbed sand into them, the eyelids so stiff it seemed they'd been stung by hornets. His legs trembled visibly; he didn't think they'd hold his weight if he tried to stand –

The chilled prick of a hypodermic needle against his neck made him flinch.

"This is Librium. Only a mild dose – ten milligrams. Might make you feel drowsy for a while, but it'll help you settle down a bit more. Your pulse is still a little too thready for my liking."

The nurse had a grip on his wrist, first two fingers measuring his heart rate, as she knelt beside him on the floor. Her face bore an expression of profound relief, and she offered him a small smile, the corners of her mouth upturned marginally.

"Feel better?"

Ned mustered the wherewithal to nod, and she blew out her cheeks gustily. "Glad to hear it. _Lord_, but you gave us quite a scare, there, for a minute…"

Still dazed, it took him a moment to process her words – and take notice of the huddle of curiously concerned faces, watching him intently.

_Oh._

A flush redder than a ripe tomato heated his cheeks as Ned realized he'd just had a total meltdown in full view of the nurses' station – made an utter fool of himself in front of a bunch of complete strangers. Letting out a groan of mortification, he buried his flaming face in his hands, acutely self-conscious.

"Hey. Hey." Fingers lifted his chin, tipped his head up so he was forced to meet dark almond-shaped eyes filled with gentle rebuke. "Hear me, now. There is _nothing_ for which you should be feeling ashamed."

Ned gave a self-deprecating snort and turned away. But two hands shot out to catch hold of his face, cup his cheeks, thumbs sliding under tired, puffy eyes to wipe away the salty remnants of tear-tracks. The unexpected tenderness of the gesture almost made him start – it was years since he'd been used to physical forms of affection.

"Take it from me, sugar. I've seen a lot of things on the ward in my time. I've watched some folks stare death in the face and not a peep out of them…and others pitch bigger fits than you over a whole lot less. Each person is different. But to react when you're hurting is only natural, nothing more." She paused, eyeing him critically, a frown furrowing her forehead, and Ned was about to squirm under her scrutiny when she queried, probingly, "You think an awful lot of that girl, don't you?"

The directness of the question shocked him into honesty. "Yes," he said. Or, at least, he had meant to say 'yes', but what emerged was a guttural croak. Wincing, Ned hacked out a harsh, barking cough, and tried again. "Yes. She's…" He floundered, trying to find the words to convey what Chuck meant to him, to adequately describe the _joyous, vibrant_, _precious_ thing she'd become in his life. "She's…"

And that brought him up short.

Just what did Chuck mean to him, exactly? Who was she, that he would have – _had_ – fallen to pieces, shattered over the misfortune of a quasi-faithful pie patron he'd known for less than half a year?

His heart knew the answer…and spoke the words for him:

"She's…everything."

The nurse gave a low hum of approval and tweaked his chin, smirking. "Figured she might be."

But thinking about Chuck had Ned walking down a dark path, again. "It should've been me," he mumbled, disconsolate. "I should've – "

"Stop right there," the nurse snapped. "Don't you go blaming yourself for what's outside your control. There was nothing you could have done to make things any different. This is _not your fault._"

Ned heard her words, knew them to be true, and yet that made no difference to his frame of mind. Guilt gnawed ravenously at his insides just the same.

_"Why?"_ he railed hoarsely, the gross injustice rankling. "Why her? She doesn't _deserve_ this. She _never_…" He trailed off, face twisting.

The nurse sighed, an ancient sound like the creaking of a willow tree, and reached up to ruffle his hair. "I don't know. I don't think anybody does."

Ned felt the familiar prickle behind his eyeballs that preceded the hot rush of tears. He'd thought he'd shed them all. "I...I can't do this," he whispered brokenly, shaking his head. "I _can't_… Please…" He knew he was begging, knew it was futile, but somehow couldn't summon enough requisite pride to care. "Please...just _make it stop_…"

"Oh, honey…" the Caribbean features crumpled in pitying sympathy, "…I wish I could."

She leaned forward – and suddenly Ned was engulfed in a warm, comforting embrace, his face tucked into the curve of a soft shoulder, fingers plowing in soothing furrows as they raked over his scalp.

The last person to hug him, to hold him close like this, had been his mother – on the morning of the day she'd died…

It was as if a dam broke, or a wall fell. Desolate, boneless with devastating exhaustion, Ned slumped into the head nurse's outstretched arms like a marionette whose strings had been cut, his body wracked by silent, shuddering sobs, as he cried his broken heart out, as the medication coursing through his veins took effect at last, and his thoughts slowed along with his heartbeat as he eagerly chased – fell headlong into – the blessed, black oblivion of sleep...

* * *

_In the dream, he wanders a vast, flat, featureless landscape of blazing white; searching for something he cannot name. The air surrounding him is warm and humid, tropical; the light breeze caressing his bare skin sweet-smelling and wholesome in its purity._

_He spies movement from the corner of his eye. Just ahead, a shape glides sinuously over the ground. Moving closer, curious, he sees the figure is a woman clad in a simple and unadorned white, diaphanous slip – a woman with wavy chestnut hair and laughing hazel eyes._

_Chuck._

_She moves to a silent tune in a graceful dance, her limbs lithe and supple, and he cannot help but observe for a time, entranced. Her steps are confined to the boundaries of a large circle, drawn in gleaming ink. Roman numerals are inscribed along the perimeter, and from its center two straight lines emerge in a wide angle to end in arrowheads at the circle's crisp black border._

_The circle itself and the strange symbols within it are not what arrest his attention, however. From the arrows' point of origin springs a magnificent vine, verdant and lush with leaves of emerald damask…and crowning the tip of the stalk is a flower of breathtaking beauty the likes of which he has never seen, the daisy-like petals seemingly of beaten gold and soft as silk. The blossom's delicate fragrance is incredible, the rarest and most luxuriant of perfumes, and is the source of the tendrils of air tickling his cheek._

_He is compelled to draw nearer. He must touch it – _

_And his feet cross into the ring._

_A gong sounds in the distance. Instantly the lines of the circle begin to glow, and the arrowheads start to sweep slowly, inexorably, around its perimeter. Chuck stumbles, faltering in her dance; and he stares in horror as she retreats, the hands – for they stand on the face of a gigantic clock, he realizes – advancing upon her._

_He makes to follow her, to catch her, to…do what, exactly, he knows not – only that he must reach her before she is overtaken._

_He tries to run, but his bare feet slip and slide clumsily over shifting, treacherous bleached-bone sand, and he can make no headway. The air roils, cloying and fetid. Fierce gusts of wind smite his face, roaring loud as an angry lion, dry and desiccating and blistering hot as a breath from the desert; blowing fine, stinging grit into his streaming eyes so that he can hardly see._

_Chuck's weaving silhouette flits before him like a mirage, staggering onward – but she cannot outpace the hands of time forever…and even as he watches, calls a desperate warning, she trips, legs buckling, and falls to earth – _

_The hard, black line sweeps over her._

_Ropes of ink sprout from the ground like shoots of an evil plant, and entwine themselves rapidly about Chuck's prone form. He hears her cry out in fear and pained shock as wicked little thorns along their length, sharp as razorblades, dig into the flesh of her arms, her legs, her waist; so that bright scarlet trickles of blood begin to flow – _

_Shouting, outraged, he lunges forward – only to find himself caught fast, inked cords coiled like snakes around his own wrists and ankles, burning his skin like hot tar. Bound and helpless, he can do nothing but watch Chuck writhe in agony as he struggles in vain to free himself._

_She screams in terror as the thorns spread across her face, their piercing points creeping dangerously close to her eyes. As her blood stains the white sand red he can endure no longer; turning away, heartsick, to see the flower –_

_It is fading! wilting before his very eyes, the proud stem drooping, the shriveling petals dimming first to a dirty mustard color and then a dull brown until there is nothing left but a dead, dried-out husk._

_One by one the green leaves wither and fall – and once the last lies on the ground, the gale dies away, the oppressive heat rolls back, and the foul air begins to clear. The inky bindings withdraw as swiftly as they sprang forth, leaving him gasping and clutching at his raw burns; and Chuck lying in an ungainly sprawl where she had fallen, her slip slashed to gossamer ribbons and her torn flesh bruised and broken._

_He is on his knees beside her in a breathless instant, cradling her slack and lifeless body in his arms. His tears fall as a gentle, cleansing rain onto her cheek marred with blood that has dripped down, seeping from beneath closed eyelids…_

_She stirs, eyelashes fluttering – and he fights the instinct to recoil from the sight of yawning, empty sockets, barren and hollow. Her seeking hands grope for him, blind; and her fingers sweep across his brow in a sorrowful caress._

_"The daisy," she rasps, "it was supposed to be for you. I'd always meant it to be yours, someday…"_

_She weeps, dry and harsh; and he gathers her close, carries her, to lay her down in the shade of the wilted blossom. _

_Now that the smell of putrefaction has abated, he can see a form of tragic, forlorn beauty in its sad remnants – and he reaches out to stroke one shrunken petal._

_A bright flash, a streak, of gold leaps outward from his fingertips, licking the edges first and then rippling along the entire petal in a blaze of living color, like a flame bursting into life…and to his amazement the flower begins to revive. The stalk straightens proudly as crisp new leaves unfurl, petals plumping once more into elegant curves – and the daisy is whole again and, to his eyes, more beautiful even than before; its heavenly bouquet fresh and vitally alive._

_He turns to Chuck in bewildered joy, lifts her to him; and presses his lips, soft and tender, to her brow, to the ruins of her eyes…_

_And that magical golden flash surges outward once again, leaving the bow of his lips tingling as if from the passage of an electric current…and blood recedes, cheeks flush, skin smooths as the myriad scratches heal – _

_And Chuck gasps as her eyes open, and he is lost in the depths of twin forest-green pools flecked with hazel as she gazes at him in blissful wonderment._

_"See," he murmurs, gesturing to the flower as he draws her near by an arm about her waist, "it still is..."_

_And his head bows as he dips his mouth to Chuck's for a kiss –_

* * *

Ned jolted back to glaring, fluorescent-lit wakefulness with a start. Abruptly, he sat up – and instantly regretted the decision to move so quickly as his vision swam and blacked, the room spinning around him in wobbly, lazy revolutions. Stifling a groan, he bent double; panting, thumbs squeezing his throbbing temples, until the world settled once more into stationary two-tone walls of lime and cream.

An absolutely vicious, vise-like headache had his skull pounding like it was about to come apart at the seams, triggering his stomach to roll queasily. Gritting his teeth, Ned swallowed down the rancid taste of acid coating the lining of his mouth and took several cautious, deep breaths; drawing air in and sending it back out through his nose, considering just how much he disliked – _hated_ – the side-effects of mood-altering drugs.

Strangely, though, Ned was – after a fashion – nearly glad of the migraine. Pain was clouding; made it difficult to think, to _feel_, beyond the immediate. Made it almost possible to forget…

The throb ebbed, became marginally more tolerable after a moment; he straightened stiffly, swiping a hand over rheum-crusted eyes.

The vestiges of the dream still clung wispily, like cobwebs, to the corners of his consciousness. Details and meaning had faded, already slipped beyond his reach…but vague images – hints of colors and shapes, sounds and smells – remained; unusual, _disturbing_, in their vividness. They troubled him.

Troubled him, because Ned could not remember falling asleep.

He recalled bits and pieces of his emotional outburst in the hallway, all right; faintly remembered screaming… He shuddered, closing his eyes.

He could remember the head nurse, her infinite and inexplicable compassion. Remembered how she held him, the way her arms hugged him tight – how _good_ it felt, how _safe_; and how the feeling was so _wonderful _after all those many years of isolating loneliness and deprivation that he couldn't help but break down crying, bawling like a baby. But after that…

After that…

How had he gotten here? The last thing Ned knew, he'd been sprawled out on the floor of a hospital corridor. Now, he found himself sitting on a narrow cot, the pair of Chuck Taylors he didn't remember removing unlaced and placed neatly beneath it. The nurses must have taken them off; must have dragged his limp and unresisting body in here, and laid him down, while he was still unconscious…though just how they'd managed that, Ned was sure he couldn't imagine.

The cot itself ran along the back wall of a stuffy, cramped examination room. An assortment of shelves and cupboards looked oddly familiar, and he realized it was the _same _examination room, come to think of it, that he'd been in before, with Chuck –

_Chuck._

How could he have forgotten her?

Ned had no idea how much time had passed while he'd been lying, insensate, in medically-induced slumber. But Chuck had already been in the bathroom for a good thirty minutes before that –

He fumbled with the watch he wore on his left wrist, his mouth gaping open as he squinted and read the time the spindly hands pointed to on its face.

_Twelve fifty-two._

Ned's eyes darted up to the digital clock fixed above the door. The bright, red numbers flashed –

Twelve fifty-two.

It had been around eight PM when he'd locked up the Pie Hole's front door; Chuck sitting, waiting for him, in the passenger seat of his old, beat-up jalopy of a car…and the clock in the hospital foyer had chimed eleven when he'd gone down there with the pair of detectives… Ned did the mental math.

An hour and twenty minutes, give or take. He had been flat on his back, completely out of it, for nearly an entire _hour and a half_.

Yet Chuck had not returned.

His guess may not have been the most educated, he'd be the first to admit that – but Ned couldn't help thinking a full two hours was far too long a time for someone to spend just cleaning themselves up. Even considering…

And that thought, when combined with the disquieting remnants of his dream, was enough to spur Ned into slipping on his sneakers and getting to his feet – though he rose painstakingly slowly, gingerly, mindful of his head. Still woozy, he stood; shoulders stooped, a hand pressed to the wall for support, blinking away the fuzzy gray spots floating before his eyes.

A splash of bright, pastel color drew his attention to the chair across the room. Stagger-tripping on clumsily slack, uncoordinated legs – the injection, plus the sleep, had turned his joints to jelly – Ned made his ungainly way over to it, a frisson of fear coiling in his gut as his hands sank into the soft pile of fabric lying on the seat.

A fall of apple-green satin and heavy floral print spilled over his fingers.

Chuck had left her clothes behind. _All_ of them, Ned learned, as he pawed through blouse and skirt to find nude-toned stockings, white lace bra and panties (that his fingertips flinched from, in embarrassment), tucked neatly between the folds. Her shoes sat by a back chair-leg – satin squash heels in a juicy green matching the blouse – and he picked them up. They were small in his hands; well-worn, sides frayed slightly at the heels and toes, and he ran a gentle palm over the patches of thinning material.

Since she obviously hadn't been dressing…what was keeping Chuck in the bathroom for so long?

Warning bells sounded a claxon of alarm in Ned's head. _Something had to be wrong –_

Hastily bundling clothes and shoes together and tucking them under one arm, he barely paused to read the directional sign hanging from the corridor's ceiling as he forced himself to run to the accessibilities-accommodating washroom down the hall, anxiety mounting with every hurried step.

The hospital staff had directed Chuck to the accessible (or handicapped) bathroom precisely because of the privacy it afforded. Larger than an ordinary stall and designed for single-occupancy use, it was meant to ensure solitude.

A solitude Ned was about to barge in on, he thought, as he stood outside the plain-paneled door, unaccountably nervous and unsure of himself.

"Chuck?" he called, voice cracking. "Is everything okay?"

When he got no answer save silence, Ned rapped his knuckles on the scratch-scarred wood in a light knock – and felt it shift, swing inward, under his touch. He reached down, in consternation, to jiggle the handle.

The door wasn't locked.

"Chuck…" There was no reply.

Ned was in the act of attempting a second, louder, knock when he heard it.

A deep, shuddering sigh. Then –

A choked gasp. A low, uncertain sound…not unlike a whimper.

Ned's blood chilled to ice-water in his veins.

Apprehensively holding his breath – praying he was doing the right thing – he pushed the bathroom door open just wide enough to quickly slip inside, letting it fall shut behind him with a muted, hollow thunk.

The sight greeting his eyes made his heart and shoulders drop.

Chuck sat on the floor in the far corner, wedged into the narrow space between blow-dryer and sink, back hunched and legs drawn up to her chest, outflung arms wrapped tightly around pressed-together knees.

She was stark naked – the paper wrap she'd been wearing lay in a crumpled heap in the middle of the room – though her posture kept Ned from catching a glimpse of anything he shouldn't. Not like that mattered; it wasn't as if Ned was going to see something he hadn't already, before.

Her head was downcast, buried in her knees; her loose hair pouring hotly in a thick, tangled curtain over her shoulders so that Ned couldn't see her face – but from the way her whole body quaked and trembled, and the hitch in her soft breathing, he was sure she was crying.

She had not looked up when the door had opened, nor when it had closed; she did not look up now as Ned hit the automatic lock, which activated with a loud click, dropped her clothes and shoes on top of the toilet tank, and impulsively toed off his sneakers, kicking them to the side, out of the way, to stand barefoot on the cool tiles.

Ned was not a gambling man, but he would have bet the deed to the Pie Hole that Chuck had not moved from her current position for the whole two hours she'd been in the bathroom.

Seeing anyone this way – in paralytic, abject misery – was beyond ghastly, obscene; yet Ned was unaware of feeling anything other than heartfeltly sorry – _painfully_ so – that it was Chuck reduced to such a pitiful condition, and he the one to witness it.

People sometimes slipped into a temporary – or, on the rare occasion, possibly permanent – state of catatonia after a severe shock, if left to their own devices. Ned thought he remembered reading that in a book, somewhere…

He couldn't leave her like this. He had to do something…but what?

The bathroom's tiled floor really was cold; his feet were going to go numb, their soles already beginning to ache. It occurred to Ned that Chuck had been sitting on this same floor for two hours without any layer of protection between it and her bare skin. She had to be freezing…and, sure enough, no sooner did the thought cross his mind than Chuck shivered.

Well, it would be a start. Ned took a step forward, bent to pick up the wrap – and saw Chuck flinch, shrinking further into the corner as if trying to disappear.

Ned froze in place, berating himself harshly for his carelessness. _Stupid,_ he thought, _I'm scaring her, I'm making it worse. Slow; I've got to take it so, so slow…_ He wondered, not for the first time that night, what exactly Chuck's bastard of a boyfriend had done to make her so jumpy, wary of the slightest movement, beyond what he knew and could read in the cryptic scrawl of blood and bruises and tears; wondered if he was truly better off not knowing.

That train of thought made his clenching fists itch and his heart twinge as a familiar pang of regret ran it through, sharp as a sword's blade; and Ned shoved his bleeding emotions down, to the back of his mind, as he forced himself to stay stock-still until, once more, Chuck's upper body slumped forward over her knees.

He approached her as one would a skittish horse; arms down and held out by his sides in a nonthreatening attitude, the white wrap stretched between them, bare feet padding noiselessly inch by excruciatingly cautious inch across the floor.

He stopped once he was within a foot from Chuck's curling toes, sinking to his knees in a motion so deliberately gradual the straining muscles of his calves and thighs shook and screamed in protest. And Ned reached out his hand across that last bit of distance separating them, palm up and fingers spread; coaxing, supplicating –

"Chuck…"

But she cringed from his outstretched hand as if it were a striking snake. "Don't _touch_ me." Her voice rasped like a withered old crone's, venomous in self-loathing and revulsion. She did not look at him; her gaze remained fixed on the floor. "Please; go away, Ned, I…don't _look_ at me, I – Just…_go away_, and _leave me alone_…"

Her words dissolved into a groaning sob; and Ned _couldn't_ do as she asked, _couldn't_ leave her, not now – and he reached for her, the pads of his fingers skating over the sloping curve of her shoulder –

Chuck jerked like she'd been struck by lightning, wrenching her body back, pulling away from Ned's touch so violently the small of her back slammed into the wall with an audible smack; both her arms flew up around her head as if to ward off a blow. He could see her eyes, now – huge and glazed, pupils blown wide in abject terror; half-hidden behind snarled strands of hair.

_"DON'T!"_ she wailed; the single syllable dragging out, rapidly climbing to the shrill pitch of desperation. "Oh, _please_…"

The plea tore into Ned like jagged claws, opening up long, ragged wounds that bled sorrow and grief. Her breath-stealing fear pierced him to the heart; surely it was breaking into pieces, crumbling to dust and ash…

The wrap fell, forgotten, to the floor. "Chuck," he whispered hoarsely, "oh, Chuck…"

She cried out sharply as the backs of his knuckles traced along her cheek to catch the spill of tears; but he paid it no heed as the flats of his palms smoothed the locks of her hair, brushing them from her eyes. His hands slid down to cup her face, thumbs skimming along her jawline; ignoring the scratch of her nails scoring his wrists, his forearms, as Chuck, sobbing, "No, no," tried to pry them loose.

His need to touch, to reassure, was acute. Ned's large hands swallowed Chuck's smaller ones, taking them in a gentle hold as he tugged her forward, drawing her close.

Chuck fought him; ripping her hands from his to beat at his chest with slender fists, shrieking wordlessly, every straining muscle taut as piano wire. But Ned's arms clasped about her waist and held her tight, though the pain of each feeble blow was more than physical; withstanding the onslaught.

He held fast as the hurricane of furious terror raged through Chuck, battering them both. He was a mountain; he was her anchor as her screams faded into sobs, deep and wrenching, and the frantic drumming on his breastbone first slowed, then finally ceased.

Her shaking fingers clutched at the front of his shirt, grabbing fistfuls of the pebbled-blue Henley; and Ned felt the last of the tension drain from her body as the angry storm blew itself out at last and Chuck fell, sagged into him like a ragdoll as his ready arms caught her up in an embrace. Her face was pressed into the crook of his neck, her tears wet and scalding on the skin there; and Ned felt teardrops streak his own cheeks, rolling down to mingle with Chuck's as he buried his face in the long, dark waves of her hair.

She shuddered, gasping, ragged breaths damp and hot; and Ned's hand came up to cradle the back of her head as he pulled her closer still, trembling lips ghosting over the shell of her ear as he hushed her.

Lifting Chuck into his lap, Ned rocked with her on the floor, rocked her like a little child afraid of the dark. Now, as even her sobs trailed off into sporadic hiccups and gulping sighs, he could not seem to stop talking, half-whispered murmurings pouring from his mouth in a rush – shushings and repeated soothing assurances interspersed at random with nonsensical endearments and babbled sweet nothings.

He was aware of speaking, but his voice seemed to come from a long way off, someplace outside of himself. It felt odd, disorienting, to know he was talking and yet have utterly no idea what he was saying. He knew only that, as Chuck slowly quieted, and a blanket of silence began to descend once more, the encroaching lack of noise created an ominous void; an appalling emptiness that had to be filled up quickly with a lot of words.

Ned may have been telling Chuck she was beautiful; always had been and always would be, in his eyes. He may have been telling her how much better a place his world had become since she'd entered it. He may have been telling her how sorry he was; and that if he had one wish in the world, it would be to turn back time and make this – all of it – stop.

He didn't know. It didn't matter. All those things were true, regardless.

Ned did not tell Chuck that he'd loved her – all of her; her sun-warm smile, her sparkling eyes, her bell-like laughter – the moment they'd first met…that he loved her still, and that he always would.

Those words did not need to be said. They were known, and felt.

Ned kept on talking until his voice gave out. And the silence crowded down around them – but it was different, now: if not peaceful, still and somehow expectant; poised, waiting – broken only by the sound of their shared breaths.

Chuck stirred somewhat fretfully in his arms, reaching one hand up to her forehead. "I feel…so strange," she said dully, voice thick with exhaustion. "I – " The hand leaped down to her mouth, and she gagged, eyes widening. "I – I think I'm going to – "

And then she was scrambling for the toilet on hands and knees, making it halfway there before the first heave jack-knifed her body and she vomited.

Ned was by her side in an instant, supporting her; holding her upright by a long arm slung around her shoulders, stroking the hair from her face and holding it back while she retched miserably, eyes watering. He winced as she brought up nothing but bile, greasy and yellow; rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles until the sick spell passed and Chuck leaned against him, winded and breathing shallowly. She started to mutter an apology, but he only hushed her; gentle fingers running bracingly up and down her arm, tucking loose wisps of hair behind her ears: "It's okay."

Without removing his arm from about her shoulders, Ned reached out his other hand to grab a handful of toilet paper and throw it over the slick mess. Mopping it up carefully, he threw the soiled tissue in the toilet and flushed it down. Then he stood, knees creaking and cracking the whole way up, hauling Chuck to her feet with him, and led her over to the sink.

A stack of paper cups sat on the small counter; Ned filled one and passed it to Chuck, who squished and spat, cleansing her mouth of the acrid taste of vomit. He refilled it and she drank, gratefully. Ned took a cup for himself; the water was ice-cold, made his teeth sing with pain – but oh! it felt so good, so refreshing, on his parched tongue and throat…

There was a facecloth lying on the edge of the sink. Letting the tap run cold, Ned soaked the terry-towel thoroughly before wringing it out and bringing it, damp, to Chuck's face, tipping her chin up and wiping the traces of sick from around her mouth.

As he worked, he noticed Chuck eyeing herself critically in the warped mirror. Considering their blurry reflections, Ned thought they made for such a strange pair – Chuck naked, pale and wraith-like, face puffy and purpled colorfully; himself near unrecognizable, red eyes sunken and ringed with dark circles, white as chalk save for a fever-red high flush staining his cheekbones, still fully clothed save for shoes.

Yet, they matched, somehow; the mirror's image strangely completed by the presence of both their faces. Ned was put in mind of the Afghan wedding tradition of _Ayena Masshaf_ (as told to him by a rare friend from his boyhood school days) where, under the privacy of a veil, the bride and groom are given a mirror in which to view themselves for the first time as a married couple…

Gazing at her reflection now, he wondered what Chuck was seeing; wondered what she saw when she looked at his face next to hers.

"I'm not." The sudden sound of her voice was loud over the soft dripping of the tap.

"What?"

"Beautiful." Chuck's finger reached out, slowly outlining the curve of her reflection's jaw on the glass. "You called me 'beautiful', before. But, I'm not." Her hand retracted, drew back to chafe at the delicate skin of the inner wrist of her opposing hand. "I'm dirty." She heaved a breathy sigh that caught in her throat. "I'm _so dirty_, Ned…" Her eyes fluttered closed, two tears escaping from beneath the lids and coursing down her cheeks.

Ned thumbed them away. He drew Chuck's face around until she turned so her back was to the mirror; waited for her eyes to open again, to fix to his, before he spoke. "No, you're not. And you _are_ beautiful, to me. Always."

Her eyes – her lovely eyes – were beseeching; and Ned knew what Chuck asked of him.

Rinsing out the facecloth still held in his hands, he ran it over her tearstained cheeks, her brow, her chin and neck, gently washing them; pressing the cool, wet fabric oh-so-softly, soothingly, to the blackened eye, the split lip. His fingertips traced over the bruising, feather-light, as he hummed the old Afghan tune under his breath:

_"Ahesta boro, Mah-e-man, ahesta boro…"_ The remembered Farsi words were liquid gold, honey on his tongue. _Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly…_

Heart pounding, Ned stepped in close; so close Chuck's body stiffened in mild surprise. His head bent to hers; his lips a mere hair's breadth above her swollen cheek, so near he could feel the skin break out in goosebumps as she shivered.

He'd never done this; not with anyone else. He'd never wanted to. Ned wondered, marveled, at his own boldness.

"Kiss it better," he murmured.

And Ned closed that last gap between them, touched his mouth to Chuck's marred flesh – so smooth, so cool – in a brushing, barely-there butterfly caress that set off sparks of electricity arcing under his skin.

Chuck's breath hitched – but she did not pull away. A faint, rosy blush spread across her wan face, like the sky lightening at dawn.

Passing the towel meticulously down over shoulders and arms and back, breasts and stomach, Ned bathed Chuck from head to toe; fingers and lips following each lingering sweep of the cloth along her skin, leaving tender not-quite-kisses on every blemish, every wound encountered in their path. Crouching, his careful hands tracked up her legs, from her feet over her carved ankles, the roundness of her knees, and higher; he pressed his open mouth to the worst of the bruises marking the insides of her thighs and felt fresh tears threaten, start to come as he turned his face into the flat planes of her belly, pads of splayed fingers digging into the curve of her hipbones, letting out a quiet moan of distress.

How he dreaded what was next…

A pair of small hands came to rest on the crown of his head, weaving their way into his hair. "Ned?"

Chuck was staring down at him, trembling; her face wreathed in shadow. She knew what must be done.

"You should do this," he pleaded. "I – It's not…_right_, for me to – "

But Chuck was shaking her head. "I can't." Her hands were unsteady. "I need your help, Ned. Please…"

"I'm afraid. I'm so terrified I'll hurt you…" He breathed the confession into her soft skin.

Her slender fingers played with the short hair at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly. "It'll be alright," she whispered, repeating his own words back to him. The look in her shining eyes was stoic, determined. "I trust you."

_I wish I could trust myself._ Ned sighed, hiding a sob; felt Chuck's abdominal muscles twitch beneath his cheek as his breath tickled her navel.

Then he rocked back on his heels, fumbling behind him with a seeking hand; found the edge of the paper wrap that still lay, discarded, in the middle of the floor and dragged it to the wall behind the sink, spreading it out flat, lengthwise. Heavily he sat himself down on it after refreshing the facecloth under the tap one last time, stretching long, lanky legs out in front of him, and gestured for Chuck to join him.

She held out her hands to him, and he took them in his own; pressed his lips to her knuckles and turned her hands over in his, dropping a soft kiss to each palm, before he pulled her down.

Chuck nestled between his legs, Ned spreading them a bit to make room for her, her back against his chest. She leaned her head on his broad shoulder as she curled her arms about her stomach; and Ned nuzzled her cheek, his own arms circling around, overlaying hers as he laced their fingers together.

They sat, silent and unmoving, drawing courage and comfort from each other, for a time interminable.

Then Ned was pressing the face-towel into Chuck's palm, their fingers still tangled as his hand atop hers slid the cloth down to the nest of curls at the apex of her thighs.

Chuck whimpered; went rigid as a board, knees snapping together. The hand at her stomach wrenched itself from Ned's grasp and flew down to clutch at his fingers twined with hers, clenching in the damp fabric; her eyes fixed on the towel in a deer-in-headlights gaze.

Ned's brain flashed in understanding; and his now-free hand turned Chuck's face away and to the side, palm shielding her eyes. "Don't look," he said into the fall of her hair, feeling her whistling breaths short and racing against the skin of his cheek.

She nodded, jerkily; and her hand slowly loosened its grip on his wrist, moving to rest on his thigh as she braced herself.

Chuck let her legs fall open again; and Ned's lips mouthed a silent prayer as he guided her fingers holding the cloth between them, joined hands moving in a single, deft swipe –

Chuck's hips bucked, the nails of her hand on Ned's thigh digging in painfully even through his jeans as she scrabbled for purchase. She muffled a cry in the side of his neck; and Ned grimaced, his breath hissing between clenched teeth as the terry-towel came back stained red, bearing a lurid streak of thick white –

Wanting badly to drop it in disgust, he instead washed it out in the sink, watching in sick fascination as garish crimson eddies swirled around his fingers and down the drain.

At his feet, Chuck hid her face in her hands, emanating palpable waves of shame.

Ned had to rinse out the cloth after two more passes, which Chuck endured bravely, before it came away clean. After wiping off their hands, he didn't bother returning it to the sink; rather, he hurled it into the garbage with all his strength, unable to stomach the sight of it any longer.

His whole body was shaking. His hands, for all he'd cleaned them, felt dirty, imbrued with blood and filth; and he had the faintest inkling of what Chuck had meant, what she had to be feeling. Going back to the sink, Ned scrubbed with soap from the dispenser until the skin around his fingernails stung, splashed cold water on his face and the nape of his neck; leaned all his weight on the cool porcelain, back bowed, as he ran a tremulous hand over eyes and mouth, trying desperately to compose himself, perilously close to tears.

Hastily seeking a distraction, he turned, gathered Chuck's clothes; began rifling, sorting through them. Her heels he put on the floor, next to his sneakers; they could wait. He winced at the blood-spotted blouse, buttons missing and torn beyond repair – she wouldn't be wearing it again. Likewise, her stockings; laddered and rent at the gusset. The skirt seemed undamaged except for the zipper; Ned set it aside.

Gone now was the hesitation and embarrassment as he handled the flimsy scraps of lace that served as Chuck's underwear. Her mangled bra was a write-off, the broken clasp falling apart in his hands; but her panties – though they bore slight stains at the crotch, which couldn't be helped – were intact.

Still in one piece. Wearable. That was all Ned cared about right now.

Folding the scraps of blouse around stockings and bra, he left them there on the floor; picked up panties and skirt and sat back down next to Chuck – whose arms were wrapped around herself, again.

It was like dressing a little child – or, no; a doll. Chuck was passive, flaccid while Ned shifted to be slightly behind her as he coaxed first one foot and then the other into her panties and slipped them up her legs, fingers smoothing the lace at her hips; hands travelling higher to skim over her waist as he drew her back into a hug and started speaking, eager for any diversion from his thoughts.

"Your clothes; they, uh," he began, not sure she was even listening, "you can't…wear them. At least, not those." He gestured to the shreds of ruined material by the toilet. "So, you have bottoms," he said, hefting the skirt, talking more to himself, really, than to Chuck, "but no top. I don't know what – "

And then Ned was shrugging out of his Henley without a second thought, unmindful until he felt the chill of cool air on bare skin that he had on nothing under it (making pies for a living meant that, no matter what the temperature outside, heat from ovens nearly constantly baking kept the Pie Hole's kitchen pleasantly – or, depending on the season, almost unbearably – warm year-round). "Here," he held it out to Chuck, "you've got to have something; wear this."

She merely stared at him, bewildered; and Ned glanced down at his naked torso, hot-faced. "I left my jacket back in the waiting area; so, I'm good. Take it," and he thrust the shirt into Chuck's hands.

She did not put it on. Her fingers traced over the material slowly, almost reverently, as though it were the rarest of silks; gathering it in her hands, she pressed it to her cheek in a manner so tender, Ned's throat clogged with emotion.

"Take it," he repeated, voice breaking, as he looked at her now, this woman lying in his arms; this bright bird of paradise that had flown into his drab little cage and brought such _color_, such _life_ into his dull, dreary existence – wounded; fallen feathers scattered around broken wings…

And Ned's breath caught on a sob, rasping as he choked out, "Take it, Chuck, please; God, I – " His hands buried themselves in his hair. "I – I'm _sorry…_"

Tears stung his eyes – and Chuck wriggled, twisting around; straddling him as her legs wrapped, locked around his waist in a single convulsive move. Her arms wound around him, the palms of her hands pressed firm and flat against his back, fingers spread and running over the ridge of his spine; and Ned, letting the tides of remorse carry him out to sea, pulled her tight to his chest as his head dropped to rest in the curve of her shoulder, and wept.

He curled himself around her – arms, legs, and body folding inward; could not bring himself to loosen his grip though he knew he had to be crushing her, but Chuck made no protest as her hands clutched him closer still, fingers clawing at the play of muscle in his back as his shoulders heaved.

They clung to each other, skin to skin; a distant corner of Ned's mind trying to ignore the feel of Chuck's uncovered breasts, supposing there should be something borderline indecent about such intimate contact with a (now) half-naked woman who was neither wife nor girlfriend while he was, himself, bare-chested. But it felt nothing but right, as Chuck's hand came up to card through the thick, sweat-dampened locks of his hair.

Before, her body had been so frail, so brittle, it had seemed he held a mannequin or glass sculpture; now, her weight in his arms and lap was solid, real and pliant, soft as peach-skin. Chuck pressed herself up against him so closely Ned was sure she would sink right through his skin, dissolve into his bones and blood like sugar in water. The touch of her skin to his, though smooth and cool, scorched him, setting his nerves alight and pulsing like live wires; until he thought their joined flesh must melt, merge…

It was sheer bliss – and he did not _deserve_ it.

"You have freckles," he heard Chuck say abruptly, her tone almost conversational, "I hadn't noticed." The fingers in his hair drifted down to his shoulder, tracing between the dots speckling the skin there; drawing soothing constellations.

"Yeah." He swallowed, almost choking on his tears; sniffed, forced himself to answer. "Had them since I was a kid."

"I used to have freckles when I was little," she told him, "but, when I grew up, I lost them." She sighed, then added, out of the blue, "I lost my dad the summer I turned nine. I never knew my mother – she died when I was born." Ned felt the lines Chuck was tracing on his back become slightly wobbly.

He hadn't known. She'd never told him this before. The knowledge seemed to break something open deep inside him; and quite suddenly, all in a rush, Ned was spilling his own secrets. "My mother died, when I was nine." He took a deep breath, continued, "I haven't seen my father in nearly twenty years. When Mom…passed, he enrolled me in a boarding school for boys, paid for my education in full, and told me he'd come back – but he never did. He…just left me. Sometimes I wonder where he is, what he's doing – but then, I decide I don't care." And now, without really knowing why, Ned felt his heart swell with a strange emotion – a feeling like a long-buried weight had been lifted from his soul; a feeling very much like relief.

It was so good to finally tell somebody – to _want_ to – after all these years.

He wondered if Chuck felt the same.

"I first met Joe – my boyfriend – when I was twenty-one." Chuck's quiet voice broke in on Ned's musings. "I'd been living with my two aunts since Dad died. They both have agoraphobia – debilitating fear of social situations, crowds; things like that – and couldn't leave the house. And, I don't know, I guess at that age something cooped up inside me that always yearned to see the world snapped. Without a word to my aunts, I went out one day, got myself a ticket for a Tahitian cruise…and took off for an adventure on the high seas. And that's where I saw him."

Her fingers never halted in their trailing across his shoulder – but Ned felt them stiffen; felt the arm Chuck had thrown around him squeeze that little bit tighter…

"He was a fellow passenger on the ship – tall, handsome, charming; manipulative, really, but I couldn't see it. He struck up a lengthy conversation with me our first week out, and I guess I was flattered a guy like that would choose _me_ to talk to when he could've had his pick of any one of the bathing beauties on board. By the second week, we were having dinner together nearly every night. By the third, he took me out dancing one evening in one of the ports and asked me to come by his cabin, afterward, for a drink. And, so, when the cruise was over and it was time to leave, he and I left the dock together…and I'd agreed to move in with him. That quick, and that simple.

"Until it wasn't. Gradually, hand-holding and kissing weren't enough anymore. He started wanting…other things – things I gave, to please him, I suppose; afraid of losing him. He'd become all I had in life: the apartment, the car, the furniture – it was all in his name; though I never dreamed of questioning it because he paid all the bills himself. All I had to do was hand my paycheck over at the end of the month, and Joe would take care of the rest.

"I thought the more I complied, the better things would get. I was wrong – they got worse. He became relentlessly possessive; wanting to know what I was doing every minute of the day, always asking me where I'd been if I got home a few minutes late from work. His…requests were more and more demanding, until one night he pushed too far and I refused – and then, for the first time…he hit me."

Chuck's fingers weren't tracing anymore, her body visibly shaking; and Ned tightened his hold on her, hands running up and down her back, trying to soothe away the tremors.

"Don't talk," he said; but Chuck was already going on, voice flat, bound to finish:

"I don't know why I never thought of leaving him. I guess it's because I really didn't have anyplace else to go. I hadn't a possession to my name; I hadn't spoken to my aunts once in all that time – not a letter, not a phone call. I figured, maybe they thought I was dead – or, I was afraid, if I reached out to them now, they'd only tell me they wished I was. Truth is, I'm just a coward...too ashamed to face them, with what I've done."

Her hand climbed up into his hair again; curling into it, grasping it like an anchor.

"Tonight…"

And then Ned was listening, heart frozen, to the whole sordid tale; Chuck's voice curiously devoid of emotion as it all came pouring out.

Knowing the truth, he decided, was both better and worse than living in ignorance.

Better: because what had actually happened was, thankfully, marginally less horrible than the endlessly grisly scenarios his imagination was capable of producing.

Worse: because what had happened had now been plucked from the formless miasma of possibility and solidified into cold, hard, reality; permanently etched into their lives like an epitaph written on a tombstone – inescapable.

Chuck just kept on in a robotic monotone, as if all she was relating had happened to somebody else; leaving no detail unmentioned until Ned had had more than he could stand.

"Please, Chuck," he begged, "stop. No more."

"Seven years, it's been…" No bitterness; only a weary, resigned emptiness as she spoke. "Seven years ago, today." Her voice was barely a sigh; so low he had to strain to hear it. "It _hurts_. It hurts, so _much_…"

Ned could tell Chuck was referring to the anguish of betrayal, rather than any physical pain. Heart aching, all he could think to say was, "I know."

"Thing is," she said, face buried in his neck, "I could take everything else – anger, suspicion… But, not _this_. I can't take this. Oh, God; _what did he have to do this for?"_

There were no tears, now. Ned, stricken, almost wished Chuck would cry as he looked down into her closed-off, pinched face.

"I'm so sorry, Chuck," he whispered again, quite unable to manage anything else; turning it into a mantra: "I'm sorry, I'm _sorryI'msorry_ – "

Chuck pulled away just far enough to lay a finger on his lips. "Don't," she said, sudden fire snapping in her eyes. "There wasn't anything you could do. It wasn't your fault. So, don't be sorry. I'm not."

_"…Why?"_

Her finger lifted from his mouth; and then her gentle hands were on his cheeks, cradling them as she looked him straight in the face. "Every path I've traveled down so far, no matter how crooked or overgrown with thorns, has managed to lead me to you. And even though that means I had to go through…all this, I could never regret having met you, Ned."

Chuck's fingers ran lightly over the skin underneath his right eye, finding and tracing the small scar there, from a smashed glass he'd dropped as a toddler. Her own eyes were so large, so close; Ned thought he might drown in their rich hazel, and drown happily.

"I'll never be sorry that you are in my life."

His cheeks were wet – but that was okay, because hers were, too, as she smiled at him; smiled wide enough for a glimpse of her pearl-white teeth to peek through.

Smiled, warm as a sunrise.

And, despite himself, Ned found that he was smiling back at Chuck through his tears; smiling, trying to be the sun shining down on her, to warm her as she warmed him.

Chuck leaned back in, head craned forward…her lips were warm – no, _hot_ – and exquisitely soft when they pressed to his forehead, lingering; when she kissed him.

"I've realized, I don't want to remember a time without you in my life," Ned mumbled; his cheek laid against hers, so that they felt each other's tears on their skin. "So, never leave me."

"Never," Chuck agreed vehemently, her breath ghosting over the tender skin beneath his ear.

"…Promise?"

Her reply did not come right away, nor was it in the form of words.

She smiled again – he felt the corners of her mouth curve upwards against the base of his jaw – before she pulled back to gaze deeply into his eyes, as though considering.

Shyly, but deliberately, her head lowered to his.

And then, before Ned had time to be startled, Chuck's lips – sweet and supple – were on his – slightly dry and stiff with shock.

The press of her mouth against his own was gentle, inviting and insistent…and Ned gave himself over to surrender; eyes fluttering closed as he explored a hitherto-unknown country of glorious sensation. The moist heat and softness as their breaths mingled were incredible; his lips parted as hers did, their mouths molding one to the other as he drank in the heady flavor of her as though she were a well in a desert, and he dying of thirst.

Chuck tasted of the salt of their shared tears, and of fresh honey, with a hint of citrus – vaguely melancholy as it was deliciously intoxicating; Ned felt himself drunk off of it, couldn't get enough.

He wondered, muzzily, if he tasted of pie.

Ned's fingers moved of their own accord; mapping brow and chin, cheeks and jawline, before winding into the long, thick twirls of Chuck's hair that poured in a chestnut waterfall over his shoulders as he tipped his head back, tilted his face up to hers, felt her arms twine about his neck. The scent of her flooded his nostrils – the crisp, fresh smell of spring rain beneath the medicinal fug of hospital sterility that clung stubbornly to the soft strands; faint bursts of lavender shampoo, dreamlike and calming…and, underneath all, the subtle, whimsical fragrance of wind-blown, bee-kissed wildflowers and sun-drenched meadow grass that Ned knew to be Chuck's very own.

Deep within himself, in the far reaches of his soul, he felt that hole – that hollow, painfully empty cleft that had only ever known the ache of lonely seclusion – begin to fill, to close…to _heal_.

He wished fervently that they could stay like this forever.

They broke apart only once their lungs began to burn for air, gasping; cheeks flushed, eyes bright and glittering as stars. Ned's hands did not leave Chuck's hair, nor did her arms drop from his neck, as their foreheads rested together; lips still brushing.

"You brought me back to life," she whispered against his mouth, the vibrations travelling in a racing thrill through his body from head to toe. "How can I ever repay you for such a gift?"

Ned's fingers slipped out of her hair and crossed her cheek; index tracing over the cupid's bow of her upper lip, thumb drawing over the pillowy fullness of the lower. "I think you just did," he sighed, still breathless, as a deep and florid blush bloomed like a dusky rose on Chuck's face.

"Besides," he murmured, finger making a dip into the corner of her mouth that had her suck in air in a sharp gasp, "it's the other way around."

Now it was his turn to lean in; to watch Chuck's eyes flick shut as he pressed his lips to hers in a gentle, tender kiss that lingered, softly smoldering. "You are my gift."

Her lips pressed back…and nothing further was said for many long, languid, _rapturous_ seconds.

"I should be apologizing to you, really," Chuck said, as they caught their breaths. "I never meant to drag you into my problems; get you mixed up in something that you had nothing to do with." She laid her hand on his cheek. "I never wanted to see you hurt…"

"Don't you think that," Ned hushed her. "It has _everything_ to do with me. Don't you ever think otherwise." His mouth brushed over her closed eyes; one and then the other. "Not _ever_."

Afterward, Chuck snuggled into his chest, her head cushioned in the dip of his shoulder; Ned's drawn features thoughtful as his careful, nimble hands painstakingly combed the matted knots from her hair.

He'd been wrong. Chuck _was_ wounded, undeniably so – but her broken wings would mend; just as his heart would. Both of them were healing, learning to recover, together.

Words once learned by rote as homework during his tenure at the Longborough School for Boys rose to the tip of his tongue, and Ned found himself reciting, in careful and methodical cadence:

_" '…And so of larger – Darknesses –_

_Those Evenings of the Brain –_

_When not a Moon disclose a sign –_

_Or Star – come out – within – …_

_…Either the Darkness alters –_

_Or something in the sight_

_Adjusts itself to Midnight –_

_And Life steps almost straight.' "_

_" 'We grow accustomed to the Dark, when Light is put away…' "_ Chuck quoted. "Dickinson. I didn't know you read poetry."

"I don't, usually," Ned stammered, feeling only slightly foolish. "This one just – seemed…appropriate."

"All her poems are so sad, aren't they?"

"I guess so," Ned agreed quietly; then added, reflectively, "but filled with so much hope."

Chuck made no answer…but her arms tightened their hold about him in a fierce embrace, and he knew she'd understood.

"You're so _warm_," she sighed, "and I'm _so tired_…" The night was taking its toll; her weary body drooped, sagging against his.

"It's past two in the morning," Ned said. He sat up; snagged his sneakers with one hand, shoving his feet into them and bending to tie the laces. "We should go, so you can get your rest – "

"No!" Chuck cut him off curtly, and he could hear the nervousness creeping back into her voice. "Not yet. Let's stay here; just a little while longer…"

"Chuck…" He kept his tone low; gentle. "We have to leave, sometime…"

"I _can't_," she whispered. "I'm _afraid_…"

Ned cradled her close, his arms forming a protective cage around her. "That makes two of us," he admitted, "though I know there's no cause to be."

"_You_ go, then," she offered, wheedling, "and leave me here; for just another minute or two. Just for a couple of minutes – "

"_Chuck_." Ned's eyes, as they stared into hers, were serious; penetrating, non-negotiating. "You've got to come, too…because I'm not leaving without you."

She looked at him, large eyes soft with fear. "You…really mean that; don't you?"

He kissed the tip of her nose, lightly. "You'd better believe I do."

Chuck's gaze filled with such helpless gratitude, Ned felt his heart melt like butter on a hot griddle. "…Alright," she consented. "I'm coming."

They dressed her easily – and quickly – enough. Ned's Henley, much too large, covered her well; though the overwide neckline still gaped somewhat even after Chuck did up all the buttons. The skirt went on over it, so the shirt's trailing tails were tucked neatly out of sight; Ned skillfully fiddling with the broken zip, managing to make the teeth catch enough to hold. Once that was done, and her hair smoothed down again, she looked halfway presentable.

The corners of her mouth twitched up as she rolled up the shirt's long sleeves. "It feels like I'm playing dress-up," she smirked, letting out a tiny laugh.

Ned's heart thrilled at the sound.

He turned around, her shoes in hand…and was met with Chuck's arms, wrapped about his waist.

"Let's go home, Ned," she whispered.

Ned faltered, confused. He didn't know where Chuck lived - at least, even though he _did_ know her address, now, not well enough to find without directions, or a map. And surely she couldn't really want to go back _there,_ not after...

Or – did she mean…?

"Home?" he questioned.

"Yes," she answered; face burrowing into his chest, over his heart. _"Home."_

And he knew.

Ned smiled softly.

"Right," he said; lips pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of Chuck's head, tucked beneath his chin. "Let's go home."


	16. Part Sixteen: Comfort

_Part Sixteen: Comfort_

They were silent as Ned drove them back to his apartment.

They were silent as they walked up the steps around the back of the bakery.

They were silent as Ned unlocked the door to his apartment and, shrugging out of his jacket, flicked the lights on.

As soon as Ned had closed the door, Chuck was in his arms again.

She wasn't shaking this time, but she also didn't let go of him. Ned pulled away from her, but kept hold of her hands. He turned the light off in the living room, and led her through the dark to his bedroom.

They lay together on his bed, the only light coming from the street lamp outside. Every now and again, the headlights of some passing car flashed in through the window and lit up the room.

Ned knew that he should get up and go close the curtains. But Chuck was pressed up against him, and she was shaking again.

He didn't want to leave her side for a moment.


	17. Part Seventeen: Awake

_Part Seventeen: Awake_

Ned often woke up in the middle of the night. He usually awakened gradually, in tiny increments.

But this time, he realized that somebody was in bed with him – and he was instantly alert.

And staring into Chuck's eyes.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hi," he replied. He reached up and gently brushed the loose hair away from her swollen eye. It looked even worse, now; in the dead hours before dawn. "Did you sleep?"

"Yes," she answered. "I dreamed an angel was holding me; keeping me safe," she looked down at Ned's arm wrapped protectively around her waist, "and my dream came true." Her hand came up to his cheek. "I haven't slept that well in a long time."

"I'm glad." Ned tried to smile, but couldn't.

Chuck lay back down with her head on Ned's chest.

He held her again.


	18. Part Eighteen: Day

_Part Eighteen: Day_

They must have fallen back to sleep, because the next thing Ned knew, his phone was ringing.

It was Olive. Where was he? It was, like, eight AM now, and no pies had been made.

"Sorry; I'm taking the day off," Ned told her. "You should, too."

"What? Why?" Olive asked.

"Something came up."

"You didn't have to do that, Ned," Chuck said when he'd hung up.

"No," Ned insisted. "Let's _do_ something today."

"I don't know…"

"Whatever you want to do."

"Anything?" Chuck asked with a playful smirk.


	19. Part Nineteen: Roommate

_Part Nineteen: Roommate_

It's not like they came to any sort of formal living arrangement.

After that night, Chuck just started to stay at Ned's apartment.

Ned didn't mind the fact that the shower and bathroom sink were now cluttered with various beauty products and other sundry items; or that his closet was now filled with an odd assortment of pastel dresses, blouses, and skirts. After all, having less room to himself in his apartment was a small price to pay for Chuck's continued safety and general happiness.

And, in a weird way, it was nice to have some reason to go home at night.

It was nice to go home to somebody.

Seeing her face appear when the door opened each evening, Digby's wagging tail announcing her arrival – before the jangle of keys or her cheery, "Hello!" – quickly became a highlight of his day.

They would stay up and tell each other about their respective days, talking for hours about nothing in particular.

It was nice.


	20. Part Twenty: Stolen

_Part Twenty: Stolen_

It was all too good to last.

Ned knew this, and was almost anticipating the moment when something would come in and shatter the perfect little world that he and Chuck had given so much to share.

Ned and Chuck were laughing over a couple of slices of day-old pie a few minutes before closing time. Somebody opened the door, and they both looked up to see who had come in.

"You!" the man growled.

Chuck's face went white as flour; and Ned knew instantly that this had to be Joe. His first impression was that she hadn't been exaggerating at all – the man _was_ extremely tall, and devastatingly handsome…in a hard, cruel, and calculating sort of way.

His second impression was born of the slick, cold nausea of pure, rage-filled terror.

"No, please! This isn't what it looks like!" Chuck pleaded.

"You leave me, and the life that we've worked for years to build, for _this_?" he yelled at her.

Chuck flinched away from him, and Ned came out from behind the counter to stand between Chuck and the man, whose gaze roamed over him in one sweeping, disdainful glance.

"A _pie-maker_? This pansy's completely beneath you! What's _wrong_ with you, Charlie? Are you suddenly so tired of me that you'd whore yourself out to the first man who came along?"

"Please, I – " Chuck started.

But the man pulled a gun out from the waistband of his pants.

Instantly, Ned drew Chuck behind him. His hand about her wrist felt her stiffen.

"Don't do anything rash. I'll come with you, so long as you don't hurt him."

"Chuck, no!" Ned protested. But already she was slipping free from his hold.

Chuck walked silently over to the man, who roughly gripped her arm. She winced; and Ned knew that she had other bruises in the same spot that were only just now starting to heal.

"Come on, you worthless slut," the man said as he yanked Chuck out of the Pie Hole.

Chuck looked up at Ned just before the door closed behind them, her eyes pleading with him to help her.


	21. Part Twenty-One: Uncertain

_Part Twenty-One: Uncertain_

Ned didn't know what to do.

He first called Olive, who rushed over and told him that he needed to call the police.

After several frantic minutes of talking and the blessed interference of Emerson (who had aided the investigation from the beginning), Ned was finally able to get a hold of the same detectives who had spoken with him and Chuck on the night Ned had taken her to the hospital.

He explained to them what had happened, and they told him to sit tight and not do anything rash.

Once they'd hung up, Ned had automatically moved to clear away his and Chuck's plates of unfinished pie; picking them up from where they still sat, untouched, on the counter to take them into the kitchen. He managed just three steps before his knees turned to water and sent him crumpling to the floor - plates and pie lying in shattered fragments all around him - with his face in his hands, wracked by despondent sobs, while a horrified Olive and Emerson hovered above him like a pair of anxious fireflies.

That had been _two months_ ago.

Eight weeks…or fifty-nine days…or one thousand four hundred and sixteen hours and a few odd minutes and seconds.

And Ned felt _every single second_ that they were apart.

He poured all his energy, along with all his fears and frustrations, into making pies. He began to forget to eat, most days – Olive force-fed him whenever she could catch him and pin him down, watching with mounting anxiety as pounds shed and he became skinnier and skinnier. Emerson made a point of dropping into the bakery every afternoon, to bring news of what updates there were in the case – and, when those ceased to be forthcoming, to try and distract him from the fact that, slowly but surely, the trail seemed to be growing cold. Digby, ever sensitive to his master's moods and missing Chuck in his own right, refused to go for walks anymore, taking to lying on his belly at Ned's feet, whining dismally.

Ned, for his part, felt muffled; like he'd been swathed in cotton batting – cut off from the rest of the world. _Existing_, rather than _living_.

Dark circles took up permanent residence beneath his eyes – he hardly slept, anymore. It felt like he spent all his time outside of baking just sitting and staring at the phone, waiting for a call that, it seemed more and more likely with each passing day, would never come.

He felt like the butt of a cruel joke of fate – one that had offered a glimpse of heaven, only to snatch it away.

He didn't know if Chuck was safe, or if she was even alive.

Never before in his life had he ever felt so uncertain.

Ned kept repeating Chuck's words to himself; telling himself that it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could have done.

He couldn't bring himself to believe them.


	22. Part Twenty-Two: Call

_Part Twenty-Two: Call_

"Ned?"

"Yes?"

"The pie-maker?"

"Yes, that's me. Who is this?"

"Mercy Hospital. Charlotte Charles is here, in the ICU…and she's asking for you."

Very calmly and deliberately, Ned took down the room number and directions, thanked the hospital receptionist for her call, and hung up.

He dashed to the bathroom and doubled over the toilet, dry-heaving, for about two minutes.

Then he stood up, washed his face, grabbed his car keys, and ran – no, _flew_ – down the apartment stairs as fast as his long legs could carry him.


	23. Part Twenty-Three: Relief

_Part Twenty-Three: Relief_

"Chuck."

"Ned…"

She was in even worse shape than the night they'd gone to the hospital.

"…Who's looking after Digby?" was the first thing she asked.

"Olive's got him. Don't worry about that, now," Ned whispered soothingly. "Just try and sleep – you need to rest."

Under the harsh glare of fluorescent tube lighting her skin lost all color; looking sallow, unhealthy – _dead_. Ned tried and failed not to picture her lying on a slab of cold metal at the morgue, pale and lifeless as white marble.

He sat down in the chair by her bed and fought back the tears that had been threatening to spill for over two months now.

"No. Don't you _dare_ cry," Chuck scolded him. "Because, if you cry…then I'm going to cry, too."

She was in a lot of pain, and was on a lot of morphine.

But Ned sat with her, and held her hand.

He didn't think about the disjointed facts he'd gleaned from the doctors' hushed conversations:

_Beaten…fractured wrist…bruised ribs…kicked her…stomach bleeding…severe lacerations…probably a belt buckle…_

As his fingers ghosted over the waves of her hair, the soft curve of her cheek, while she slept, he was just glad that she was alive.


	24. Part Twenty-Four: Next

_Part Twenty-Four: Next_

"So, what happens next?" Ned asked wearily the next morning when Chuck was a little more alert. "The police didn't say much when I first came in."

"He was arrested two days ago for shoplifting, of all the stupid things," Chuck told him. "When they figured out who he was, they came to his house. The reason it took them so long was that he'd moved after…after the last time, and so the address I'd given them was a dead end. He'd had me tied up in the basement since he brought me back, telling me that it was for my own good – "

"We don't have to talk about this now," Ned managed after a moment.

"The police are going forward with the charges, now that they have substantial evidence against him," Chuck went on, her voice low and her eyes moist. "They said that I likely wouldn't even have to testify."

"We can just focus on what's next for you."

"For _us_," Chuck whispered as she softly squeezed his hand.

"I had Olive call your aunts," Ned told her. "She's driving down to Coeur d'Coeurs tonight to pick them up; they should be here sometime tomorrow."

_"What?"_ Chuck blanched. "Did she tell them…do they…?"

"Yes," he said softly. "And she says…they've both missed you terribly, and can't wait to see you."

A small, pensive smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as Chuck's chin quivered and she turned her face into the pillow to hide her tears of joy.

"Is Olive taking Digby along with her?" she asked in a watery voice, and Ned stifled a chuckle.

"Yeah, she is. Apparently, Lily's still warming up to the idea…but Vivian loves him already." Chuck giggled between sniffles – a sound that warmed his heart better than a hot drink on a cold day.

"I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise," Ned said quietly, after a few minutes passed. "I wasn't there, when you needed me – "

"But you were," Chuck replied, vehemently. Her thumb stroked over his knuckles soothingly. "You always have been. You're here, now; and that's what matters."

This time, Ned couldn't hold back his tears.

But Chuck – her fingers threading gently through his hair – didn't seem to mind.


	25. Part Twenty-Five: Touch, Part Three

_Part Twenty-Five: Touch, Part Three_

After several weeks, Chuck was released from the hospital.

"The only place that I want to be right now is our apartment," she whispered. Ned wasn't quite sure when it had gone from _his_ apartment to_ their_ apartment, but he was happy enough to decide that it didn't matter.

Their hands brushed as they walked up the stairs.

Even though Ned had spent practically all of his free time in recent memory at Chuck's bedside holding her hand, these slight touches were different, somehow.

Electrified.

Ned opened the door; and as soon as he'd closed it behind them, Chuck was in his arms.

This was different, too. Like the touches in the stairwell, Chuck's skin seemed to be made out of pure electricity.

She looked up at him – and their lips met.

It was a surge of power that traveled throughout Ned's entire body.

And, when he pulled back and looked at Chuck, he knew that she felt it, too.


	26. Part Twenty-Six: Love

_Part Twenty-Six: Love_

It was almost a routine for them, now.

They would wake up that little bit earlier than the time when Ned had to be downstairs to start the pies for the day, and just lounge in bed.

Act like they had no worries at all.

"I love you," Chuck said rather suddenly, on one such morning.

Ned looked at her, and he just smiled.

They'd been together for over a year, now; but who was counting?

She was the first to say it.

"I love you, too."


End file.
